


That 2016 Election, Finished

by thaliaarche



Series: That 2016 Election [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Alternate Universe - Human, Discrimination, Drug Use, Everything Hurts, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I know, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, Wordcount: 100, too real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thaliaarche/pseuds/thaliaarche
Summary: Thirteen 100-word drabbles, following the reactions of assorted Kuro characters to Trump's election.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Several months back, I wrote a cracky satire piece suggesting that Sebastian Michaelis was helping Trump get elected, never imagining such a catastrophe would actually come to pass.
> 
> Like many others, I'm now confused and heartbroken. So many things went wrong this election, for so many reasons. I realized pretty early on election night that I was at risk for totally drowning in the tragedy or— perhaps worse— being overwhelmed to the point that my brain stopped caring and just went numb.
> 
> Basically out of desperation, I started trying to break down the situation and translate it into something I do comprehend— 100-word Kuro drabbles. Obviously I can't discuss every problem this election has raised— there are just so many— but I've tried to understand the perspectives of a fairly wide array of Americans (admittedly, thanks to the Kuro universe's demographics, there are disproportionately many white men). I don't agree with all these perspectives. I don't have solutions to all these problems. But writing these stories has helped me cope with the sheer misery of this week, and I hope that a few other fans might find them helpful as well. At the very least, a few non-American friends have said they'd find such a series interesting, perhaps enlightening. But if you are trying to keep the ugliness of politics from contaminating your fannish experience, then please, by all means, skip this story.
> 
> I'm hoping we can still stumble on some light in this darkness, and I wish you all safety and love.

Pennsylvania. Wisconsin. North Carolina.

As the Clinton firewall crumbles, so do global markets. Ciel Phantomhive, ex-Republican, speedily navigates his brokerage site, gathering all the international stocks on his wishlist at rock-bottom prices.

When trading halts, he quits placing orders, and he switches to an article on investing in real estate, the one industry Trump definitely won’t doom. He’s got another page open in the background— Canada’s immigration website. It crashed a while back, and he won’t really emigrate anyway. If he stays and plays this game, he might even get rich off the catastrophe.

Ciel’s cynicism holds off his despair.

\---

After pricking his finger on a “Love Trumps Hate” pin, he simply stares at the blood.

He is Sebastian Michaelis, a marketing prodigy who has lavished superhuman levels of energy upon Hillary’s campaign. He has perfected its ads, its messaging, its joyous, sky-blue aesthetic. Still, the voters swore, “There’s something sinister.”

He dials his brother. “How’d you vote?”

“Trump, obviously.”

“Obviously. Oh— incidentally, the ‘confidential client’ I’ve worked with for the past year is none other than dreaded Satanic high priest Hillary Clinton.”

Silence.

“Also, I’m pansexual.”

Sebastian slams the “end call” button and hurls his phone into the wall.

\---

As the whole map bleeds red, Lau sighs, almost too numb to care.

He’s memorized Hillary Clinton’s drug and alcohol factsheet— her proposals to better educate doctors about pain medication, to treat addicts with rehabilitation, not imprisonment, to give all emergency medical workers access to naloxone, the rescue drug that saves lives from opioid overdose. He can feel his hopes seeping through his fingers like sand.

Alas, he is not too numb to stop caring.

(He wants to double his own oxycodone dose, just for tonight.)

“Let’s head west, Ranmao,” he whispers. “Might as well give their marijuana a try.”

\---

Fred Abberline frowns at Wisconsin’s vote totals and shakes his head, because they can’t be right. Shouldn’t there should be a recount? How could Trump win by such a narrow margin that Jill Stein’s voters alone could have put Hillary over the top?

He doesn’t regret voting Green, of course. Upon logically evaluating the two major party candidates, he found them both too flawed to gain his support. 2016 was his first election since turning eighteen, and he refused to knuckle under.

Still, as he sees the panic and misery on his Facebook feed, Fred suspects something has gone wrong.

\---

Tragedy breeds humor, Undertaker has always said— violence, hatred, and mass stupidity are punchlines in the making. And indeed, he’s built his late-night show around black comedy, twisted and pessimistic and savagely honest, exposing ugly truths through satire.

Last night America voluntarily bared its every ugly truth, and Undertaker is in mourning. He sees no place left for satire to go.

He pastes on his showman’s smile and runs through his monologue once more, preparing to deliver laughter to his audience. Yet, he considers to himself, he would give anything in the world for someone to make _him_ laugh tonight.

\---

"I can't believe America elected Trump," Soma mutters.

"America didn't," his roommate Agni replies. "The majority of voters chose kinder candidates."

"Then let's switch to a popular vote," Soma huffs. "Or push Republican electors to vote Hillary!"

"I'm surprised to see you so political," he chuckles.

Soma falls silent for a moment, then shrugs. "On the subway, someone passing me said 'terrorist.'"

"What? You're not Muslim—"

"We both look like we could be." Soma sighs. "But even if we were, we wouldn't be— well, that."

"Americans are a fundamentally good people," Agni muses. "Let us hope they remember that soon."

\---

Watching Trump blunder through his victory speech, Sieglinde whispers, “You’re going down.”

Sieglinde’s models had predicted Hillary had only a 60% chance of winning, but she had hoped America’s sheer unquantifiable goodness would prove her doubts unnecessary. She was wrong.

She can fix this.

As a female data scientist who uses a wheelchair, she’s conquered plenty of challenges already. She can learn. She can retrain. With her brilliance and big data, she can fix any problem, so she now only needs to choose her battleground.

By the next morning, she’s decided to become the next great innovator in clean energy.

\---

“So then he yelled and made me give him my dollar, and I couldn’t buy my candy,” whines Luka Macken.

Jim gathers his little brother into his arms for the third time this month. They’ve both been feeling the “Trump effect”— the inevitable consequences of elevating a proven bully to the office of President.

“You’ll be fine,” he chuckles, though he suspects he’s lying to them both. “I’ll just give you my candy, silly.”

Soon, Luka falls asleep, lulled by the drone of the TV as reporters discuss national deficits and possible recessions.

Jim tears up over a stolen dollar.

\---

Grell throws on a scarf and steps out into the winter night. She sweeps down dark roads, heading nowhere, trying to outrace her thoughts.

An actress herself, she contemplates Donald Trump and this role he’s played. Does he believe his bluster? Can he tell his theater apart from reality?

She contemplates his campaign promises. Does he remember what a promise is? If he does, Planned Parenthood is dead.

If he does, her hormone therapy will once again lie out of reach.

Breathless, Grell stops on a bridge and bends over the railing, peering down at the ice-glazed river. She contemplates.

\---

Molly knows betrayal. Abandonment. Heartbreak. She knows nobody important gives a damn about people like her. She was born in the wrong place, they say, and now they only laugh at her or lie to her.

Yet in this last miraculous year, Donald Trump has strode onto the stage and _talked_ about her. He shouted her struggles. He seduced her and so many others, thanks to his charisma and confidence and simple caring, and tonight she watches CNN and sees the elites panic and revels.

At last, she knows a man who won’t just use her and screw her over.

\---

“It makes sense,” Hannah Anafeloz murmurs. “They think ‘aliens’ are ruining the economy. I suppose I understand.”

“I don’t,” her boyfriend Claude replies. “Anyone who thinks that way needs a concussion to rearrange their thinking, and I can provide one.”

“No, no more violence—” Hannah’s voice breaks. “I’m just afraid to be expelled from the country I’ve lived in since kindergarten.”

“You don’t have to live in fear.”

“Apparently I do!”

“You don’t,” he repeats. “You are the most wonderful woman I know.”

“That’s sweet, but . . .”

“Will you marry me?”

She gasps, then nods, squealing and beaming through her tears.

\---

After Sebastian’s pronouncement, the line went dead, and Ash resumed breathing with difficulty.

He confesses it’s no shock. Sebastian’s always been the black sheep of their family, always asking the wrong questions, always finding trouble where none exists. He’s probably a high-ranking Satanist himself, Ash realizes— foolish and sinful.

He’s fallen so far.

Ash smirks at Trump’s victory speech with its promises of unity and healing, certain that these are empty words to placate the sheeple. This glorious night, he dreams of taking his automatic rifle and opening fire, of cleansing this beautiful country of all its foolishness and sin.

\---

William voted for Hillary— he mailed in his ballot well ahead of time. He donated twice, too. Still, he reflects, he could have done more. He could have called or knocked on doors or driven cars, if only he had had time.

He has faith that the simple bureaucracy of the American government will blunt Trump's impact— checks and balances and sheer masses of paperwork should prevent his wildest ideas from taking shape. And yet . . .

William picks up his phone and clears a block out of his schedule, every Thursday afternoon, in order to volunteer at his local homeless shelter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If I've screwed up my facts in any of these stories, please do let me know. I'm no expert on these issues.


End file.
